


An Arrangement of Convenience

by iamanidhwal



Series: Dating the Nanny [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Child Warlock Dowling, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Engagement, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Innocence, Innocent Warlock, Love, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Not Beta Read, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Shyness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, fake engagement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 13:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanidhwal/pseuds/iamanidhwal
Summary: Due to an extra layer of protection in the Dowling estate, Crowley (as Nanny Ashtoreth) is forced to act and behave accordingly even outside working hours.Trying to keep up her regular clandestine meetings with Aziraphale through roundabout methods lead to hijinks and a sizeable cover story, one including a fake engagement, a wedding preparation montage, and a beautiful engagement ring that makes Crowley's heart skip a beat.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth & Aziraphale (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling
Series: Dating the Nanny [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581724
Comments: 34
Kudos: 315





	An Arrangement of Convenience

**Author's Note:**

> a birthday gift for Kai (@_vaxxu068 on Twitter), because we both are such WEAKLINGS to anything involving our dear darling Nanny Ash <3
> 
> Plus something fluffy, because I really wanted to write about Crowley being a doting little nanny to itty bitty baby Warlock <3

* * *

The Dowling Family was an overprotective – and equally overprotected – bunch.

Of course, it would stand to reason that the American ambassador to the United Kingdom was going to be a big deal. One didn't have to be an expert on international affairs to know that the intermediaries to the two of the strongest states in the world would _probably _warrant an extra layer of protection. 

Crowley just didn't expect it to be so over-the-top. Nor did she expect the same treatment to also encompass her as dear Nanny Ashtoreth, the sole caretaker trusted by the Dowling family of their dear little Warlock.

She tried to hide her grimace as she stood in line, holding Warlock's hand. The boy had turned five a couple of months back and was already quite hyperactive. Luckily, he listened to her whenever she told him to stop moving in place. Fidgeting was another matter, however, and Warlock's small fingers were slowly tapping a ticklish pattern on the back of the nanny's gloved hand.

"Warlock, dear…."

He looked up at her, bright blue eyes shining in the sunlight streaming in from one of the many large windows that adorned the halls of the Dowling estate. Crowley raised her eyebrows only slightly, eyes still hidden behind round, smoke-tinted glasses perched on top of her nose. The message she was trying to send was clear.

And Warlock received it perfectly. That didn't mean he had to like it, though. His fingers stopped drumming, but he immediately started shuffling his feet. "How much longer?" he whined.

"Anytime, now, pet," she cooed, then looked up, her soft expression turning stern at the guard coming their way. It was idiotic, really, this new security protocol. And they had woken them up quite early to line all the employees and members of the household up like soldiers awaiting orders. Crowley absolutely hated paperwork and bureaucracy, loathed the mundane nature of processes having to follow a certain order. But this logistical mess was on a whole other level of Hell, which she found ironic and highly amusing. 

When the guard, a man with close-cropped, graying hair and permanent lines on his forehead, finally approached, Crowley leaned in to whisper, knowing full well Warlock was going to try and crane his neck to eavesdrop. "Is this going to be much longer? Little Warlock here needs to be in tutoring in an hour."

"Sorry, Miss Ashtoreth. These are orders from above," he replied. "It'll only take a few more minutes."

She sniffed dismissively. "I certainly hope so."

The man didn't reply, only pulling up the briefcase he held and opening it slightly to reveal to her the contents. When she finally recognized what they were, she looked up at him. If there was any indication of the rage boiling away inside her, it was only an imperceptible twitch of her mouth downwards. "You can't be serious."

"I'm afraid you have no choice."

"Am I some sort of prisoner?" She scoffed, stepping back from the briefcase, where a shiny black bracelet was. It looked inconspicuous enough, like a futuristic, minimalistic watch, but Crowley knew it was much more than that. "No, absolutely not. I _refuse_."

"Miss Ashtoreth, these are His Excellency's orders." The man frowned, still holding the briefcase aloft. "These tracker bracelets will only monitor your whereabouts, and will solely be used for your safety."

"Don't try to fool me," she hissed, entirely hostile now. The only thing holding her back from chewing the man off was Warlock, who was looking with amusement as his nanny got riled up. "I see the screws."

Because the tracker was supposed to be screwed shut. Like a damn Cartier bracelet, only more invasive and less stylish. Crowley wouldn't have been caught dead wearing it. She'd rather commission a Cartier piece for herself to wear, unisex so she could pair it with whatever gender she'd present as in the future. 

The guard just sighed. "As I said, these are Mister Dowling's orders."

"No; that's a violation of my privacy, is what it is. I've signed a contract to fulfill the duties of a nanny; nowhere in that contract am I to be monitored like a criminal serving time."

"Well, the terms of services have changed." He tilted his head. "Either get in with the times or get the hell out."

Crowley froze, and she internally weighed the consequences. If she would stay and be subjected to this monitoring, she'd have a hard time going to Hell for her quarterly reports on the Antichrist's well-being. Shaking off the guards that would be tailing her night and day would prove to be more annoying, especially with her weekly luncheons with the angel in Soho in her preferred state of presentation. It was bad enough that she was already skirting immortal, otherworldly beings from both Heaven and Hell with this haphazardly-formed plan of theirs to abate Armageddon.

But then, she also weighed her other option, which was to leave the Dowling estate. She wouldn't be able to give any substantial reports to Lord Beelzebub, who would most certainly be all up in her business. Crowley needed someone on the inside of the estate, having direct communication with Warlock at almost all times, and even if she were to send a demon underling or a human agent, they'd also be subjected to the same rules and would be faced with the same problems of communication obstacles with her. 

"Nanny?"

Broken from her trail of thought, she looked down at Warlock, whose blue eyes were wide in a way that she came to know meant that he was mere seconds away from crying. He must have understood the implication of the threat, must have misconstrued her silence as his beloved nanny gauging whether this new security protocol was really too much to bear, that it was more than enough reason for her to leave and never come back.

_Bugger_, she swore inwardly. If she hadn't made up her mind just yet, little Warlock Dowling had already decided it for her.

* * *

"I envy you," Crowley whined, propping her chin on her hand.

"I thought you were the Tempter," Aziraphale replied as soon as the waiter gave them their orders – a bottle of a sweet red wine in a chilled bucket, plus a slice of cake for the angel – and hurriedly left as though summoned elsewhere. "Not the demon of envy."

They were in the Ritz, in their usual place, in their usual time. Crowley had specifically asked to have Sundays off of work from the Dowlings, especially because they were a Catholic family and would strive to go to church and attend mass. It would be quite a messy affair to try and explain away why dear Nanny Ashtoreth wasn't able to stand still in the general vicinity of a building with a cross on the top.

"Best not to pout, my dear," Aziraphale told her, popping a maraschino cherry that he plucked off of his slice of cake into his mouth. "It adds extra lines to your face."

"Screw that," she scoffed, actively making herself frown even more. She picked up her dessert fork from the table, unused, and pointed it accusingly at the man across her. "Look at you!"

"Hm?"

"You're dressed normally!" she huffed, affronted because Aziraphale looked well and good being dressed back in the usual combination of his beige suit and tartan bowtie, as well as those ridiculously hideous pair that he called shoes that were scuffed and scraped in many places. 

"Crowley, dear – "

"Ashtoreth," she hissed, looking around to see if there were any lingering ears that might have eavesdropped on their conversation, whether accidentally or intentionally. "Stick to it, angel, we're in public."

"Ashtoreth," Aziraphale corrected himself. "You look quite lovely yourself. It's nice, seeing you ah… what's that expression? Let your hair down on the weekends."

Crowley just pursed her lips. She was wearing one of her three-piece suits, which consisted of a long-sleeved shirt with a frilled collar tucked into a charcoal gray pencil skirt. She had a pair of sheer tights on, as well, and she finished the whole look with some sensible Mary Jane pumps. She might be a nanny, but she still had standards when it came to the fit, and the looks, and the colors, and designs. 

"Oh, don't gloat, angel. You just like not being obligated to wear that set of false teeth you had commissioned."

And as if to miff her more, the angel had the nerve to do a happy little wiggle in his seat. "Oh, yes, and I'm ever so pleased. But to tell you the truth, I've grown quite fond of the frock I've decided to wear most times. Reminds me of the robes from before."

Crowley was fuming in her seat, grumbling under her breath about the unfairness of the situation. Aziraphale was also employed under the Dowlings, but, as a gardener, not as close to the family as she was. Because of the distance and the hierarchy in employment, the angel received more benefits. 

One of which incensed Crowley greatly. "You don't even have a tag," she bemoaned, tapping the fork she still held in her hand on Aziraphale's wrist. 

"Hm?" He pulled back his sleeve, only to show that, indeed, it was bare. Crowley glared at the expanse of skin like it personally offended her. "Oh yes, but we were given a stricter schedule. We're to put our thumbs into a small machine by the wall I believe is called a _scantron_, and it reads our fingerprints. But we have to do it before 8 in the morning, or else a portion of our weekly wages will be taken –"

"Why do you even bother with weekly wages when you have your celestial ones?"

"_Crowley_!"

"I told you, it's _Ashtoreth_!"

"This is all very confusing," Aziraphale mumbled, sighing. "Why can't Crowley be your last name? _Ashtoreth Crowley_, it's quite a normal name."

"Bleh," was her reply to that, a shiver running up her spine. She made a dramatic gesture of cringing in her seat.

"Oh, Heavens, really…"

"Hush, now, let me be glum," she grumbled, stabbing her fork into Aziraphale's cake. The angel didn't react even when she angrily popped a forkful of the cake into her mouth. "This is going to make going out much harder. I'll have to send memos to Hell instead."

"I've never seen you complain about an out from meetings with your Prince before."

"That's because of the nature of my excuse." Crowley groaned. "I'd have to pretend to be Ashtoreth Crowley in and out of the Dowling Estate."

Aziraphale tilted his head. "Is that really so bad?"

Crowley leveled him with a glare. "I'm not exactly the doting type every second of every day."

"To be fair, my dear, no one thinks that." He popped another cherry into his mouth. "The other employees in the estate believe you'd fit more in the act of… providing illicit services," he finished in an exaggerated, dramatic whisper.

Crowley's painted lips were now downturned permanently, but only because of confusion. "A painted woman, you mean?"

"A…_dominatrix,_ is what they called it," Aziraphale clarified. 

She leaned back, mulling this over. With a natural charm and sex appeal, she could very well make this turn into her favor, wiling men and women to follow every one of her whims. She chuckled to herself, finally seeing a silver lining. "Perhaps I should build my image more."

"Oh, please."

"What, don't think I have it in me?"

And so they bantered, as if nothing had changed, a minor reprieve from their reality as of late. The end of the world was years away, but for two immortal beings, it could be at the end of the day for all they cared because time escaped them regularly. And even while talking, they had spent a considerable amount of hours just in their table, with the waiter coming by every half an hour to refill their glasses. Aziraphale would order other desserts, easily keeping the flow of the conversation going.

Crowley, for her part, loved this little mental exercise that was more of a game. She liked trying to flip the angel's arguments against him, teasing him, making him flush or squirm, pinned down by the weight of his own words. She never really partook in eating, never shared the delight that food gave to Aziraphale, content on libation.

So it came to a surprise – to both of them at the table – when a platter was placed in front of Crowley, who froze, chin on her hand. Even Aziraphale, who was gesticulating wildly in his attempt at explaining that, no, ducks didn't form a chevron formation as they migrated South to tell other animals where they were going, choked up in the middle of his sentence.

"Uhm…" Crowley mumbled, sitting up slightly and looking up at the waiter, who was a different man altogether from the one that served them hours ago. "There must be a mistake…"

"Pardon?"

"I didn't order this," she enunciated slowly, pointing down at the cake in front of her. "What's it doing here?"

"Perhaps it's free?" Aziraphale suggested, still taken aback but slowly regaining his senses. He beamed up at the waiter to express thanks. "I usually get free cakes whenever I'm here alone. Bless your heart, dear. Is it from the manager?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the young man, who looked a bit nervous. "Is it? Free?"

"W-well, yes," he replied, clearing his throat. "But it's not from the manager."

"Then who?"

Crowley didn't expect the waiter to lean down to whisper. She especially didn't expect his answer. "The, uhm… the gentleman two tables to your right. He sends his regards."

When the waiter finally bustled away, Crowley made a gesture of hugging herself as though cold, turning her head to the side as a front to glance over her shoulder at the man who had given her the cake. She looked over at a dashing gentleman, probably in his mid-forties, looking like a successful businessman in a dark green, three-piece suit. Hair slicked back paired with a glorious beard, the man was alone, and when Crowley caught his eye, he smirked at her and raised a glass of what looked to be bourbon in her general direction.

There was no denying he was a handsome man. Crowley smiled like honey was dripping off her lips, waving surreptitiously at him daintily with her fingers.

"Who're you waving to?" Aziraphale asked, all sensibilities of being inconspicuous flying over his head as he whipped around to see the new bearer of Crowley's attention. "Who's that?"

"I don't know," she hummed in reply, merely turning back to the table. Her posture was better, and she crossed her legs casually. 

Aziraphale's eyebrows met in confusion. "You don't know who that man is?"

"Nope," she replied, popping the 'p' innocently. "But he's good."

"How can you tell?"

"He bought a lady something nice," she answered, gesturing to the plate in front of her. 

She took the dessert fork and carefully cut a portion of the fluffy round pastry in front of her. Crowley gasped under her breath; it turned out to be an indecently dark, sinfully delightful chocolate lava cake, which had a dark filling that practically oozed out and dripped from the prongs of her silverware.

With only half a mind focused on what she was doing, Crowley made a show of eating a forkful and licking the chocolate off her lips. Within seconds, there was a moan somewhere off to her right.

Aziraphale's face had darkened, and he clicked his tongue disapprovingly at Crowley, and at her newfound suitor. "Indecent, really."

"Shush, now, I'm the tempter," she smirked, throwing a little wink over her shoulder. "Let me tempt."

"And I'm the thwarter, I thwart," the angel scoffed in reply, standing up abruptly and snapping his fingers. A waiter hurried over with the bill, and Aziraphale quickly pulled out a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket, all but throwing them down on the bill plate. He pulled Crowley up by the crook of her elbow, and she rose and followed him out of the Ritz with no objections, making sure to brush her hand over the shoulder of the man who gave her a gift as they walked past him.

Crowley tuned out Aziraphale's grumbling under his breath in the evening that followed, mind already turning at the endless possibilities.

* * *

True to her word (which she only ever gave to herself, in the mirror), Crowley, as Ashtoreth, had started to use this newfound power. A little cocked hip here, a dainty little giggle there. Hissing out the word 'please' whenever asking for something in the sweetest voice she could. A polite smile all around. 

Soon enough, she had the entire payroll of the Dowlings in the palm of her hands. And immediately after, she had started getting sick of the attention she was unwittingly getting.

Crowley tried – and very hard did she try – to ignore everyone who was giving her unsolicited stares, or trying to keep her for a moment longer from her duties, as though any human being, man or woman or otherwise, could actually dissuade her from influencing the supposed Anti-Christ that could bring about the end of the world as they know it. But there was always someone trying to distract her, trying to invite her away for mindless small talk, or a thinly-veiled invitation and solicitation. And no matter how soft or how hard she gave out her refusal, these puny humans never seemed to understand. If anything, the minute she sounded out a hard, resounding 'no', even the most senior guards in His Excellency's security detail would kneel at her feet to beg for mercy.

It was entertaining, she had to admit, but only for a few days. At this point, it was just downright annoying. 

"Brother Francis, may I have a word with you?" Crowley mumbled softly. She turned her head to Aziraphale, in his guise of an elderly gardener with wispy, thinning hair and straw perpetually in his mouth. Today, Warlock had insisted on going out for a picnic, and his beloved nanny had indulged him, bringing along a red checkered blanket and a basket of today's lunch. 

As soon as she moved to talk, however, Warlock whined loudly. "Nanny…!"

"Sorry, dear boy," she apologized hurriedly, and sat up straight again, legs folded under her skirt and hands on her lap. The little Dowling boy was entirely too happy to be running around in the massive gardens of the estate, but they soon sought reprieve from the hot summer sun under the shade of a huge tree Brother Francis would usually tend to. 

Crowley had wanted to talk to the angel for a while now, but with the tracker and the whole estate playing into her charm, all eyes were on her and she couldn't really do anything without arousing much suspicion. So when Warlock suggested going out, she took her chance the minute it was laid out on the table. And the wide-eyed child had decided that today was an arts and crafts day, and had jumped at the opportunity to weave a rudimentary flower crown for Crowley. "Do carry on with what you're doing."

"'m almost done!" He told her for the fifth time since he started, but Crowley let it slide, like what she did with most things concerning Warlock.

Aziraphale walked over to look at his handiwork on her head. "Oooh, Master Warlock, you're doing a splendid job!"

Crowley could practically _feel_ the grin on little Warlock's face even without actually seeing it. "Really?"

"Of course! Might I teach you something to improve on…?"

"Sure!"

"Here, you see…" And the gardener took control, telling Warlock in simple terms where it would look best. Crowley closed her eyes, intent on just listening. Aziraphale would read to her, on some rare occasions when the idea struck him, so his low, soothing voice worked their usual, calming energy on her. She could feel two pairs of hands brushing her red hair, parting it, braiding it, tucking it every which way. "And we're done."

"That looks amazing!" Warlock squealed, clapping his hands. 

"Can I see?" Crowley smiled and took a small, black compact mirror with a red snake design painted on it from the pocket of her skirt to inspect their handiwork. Twigs and soft branches were tied together by small ribbons into a crude little circlet, and Aziraphale had wrapped some vines around to soften the look. The wreath was decorated artfully with a smattering of daisies and daffodils, the red and white contrasting and complimenting the shock of red hair beautifully, which was braided and tucked around to hold the flower crown onto her head without the use of pins. 

"Oh, my, this looks absolutely stunning," she whispered, truly in awe. She opened her arms, and Warlock ran in for a tight hug. Crowley patted his hair as he wiggled in delight. "Thank you, pet."

"You're welcome! Brother Francis helped!" He reminded her, turning excitedly to Aziraphale, who kept up his alias's bashful appearance.

"And thank you as well, Brother Francis," she said, smiling.

"Och, no problem, miss Ashtoreth."

Warlock was jumping up and down, and Crowley felt her heart melt into a goop of black ichor in the pit of her chest. "You know what?" she hummed, standing up and picking Warlock from the ground, cradling him close to her. "I'm going to be wearing this the whole day, and I'm going to tell everyone that you made it for me."

She didn't know it was possible for Warlock to be even happier, but his wider smile begged to differ. "Nanny will be pretty all day!"

Aziraphale hummed, delighted. "Och, laddie, Nanny's _always_ pretty."

"Oh, yes, that's right! But she's gonna look like an angel!"

"An angel?" Crowley asked, hiding the small, painful twinge in her chest. "Oh, no, I think I'm far too, er… dark."

"Oy, nay." Aziraphale's hands were clasped behind his back, and he was teetering back and forth on his heels. "Angels are beings of love. And I think everyone can be an angel."

"Not me," Crowley mumbled softly, losing her edge and feeling faint. "I don't think I could. Maybe once, but not anymore."

"You may be an angel for someone else," Aziraphale replied, picking up his hat that had been blown away by the wind. "Like ol' me. Or darlin' Master Warlock. Isn't that right, laddie?"

"Yes!" And Warlock's arms encircled Crowley's neck in a warm hug. "You might not believe it, nanny, but you're an angel, to both me and Brother Francis!"

Crowley had never before been so thankful for the glasses she perpetually wore because right now it was masking her true emotions and the very real possibility of tears falling. She just hugged Warlock close and mouthed 'talk, later' to Aziraphale.

The angel just winked at her before excusing himself. Message received.

* * *

"You wanted to talk?" 

Crowley frowned and crossed her arms, still a bit peeved at being caught off-guard and being an emotional mess in general, so much that she had to take a five-minute break to compose herself enough to continue working. She glared at Aziraphale, who was already sent home for the day as Brother Francis but came back to pick her up from the Dowling estate in his usual state of dress, with the keys to the Bentley. 

"Where the hell were you?" She grumbled, trying to push the memory of today away from the front of her mind. Crowley all but yanked the keys out of his outstretched hand, and Aziraphale readily carried her bag for her. "It's bloody windy and I wanted a smoke."

"Ah, that's why I smell cigarettes," the angel commented, leading her back to the carpark for employees right outside the gate. It seemed as though Crowley, seemingly always cold, wasn't the only one feeling the evening chill. The guards who were on break were all standing around in a canopied spot outside the grounds, with a small gray trashcan, smoking and chatting and laughing. "Why couldn't you have gone on your own?"

"First, I can't go anywhere alone without arousing suspicion because of this bloody tracker," she scoffed. "Second --"

"Evening, Miss Ashtoreth," a guard said loudly, and the others turned around and gave out their greetings as well. Crowley merely waved at them, then hurriedly turned her back, whispering furiously to Aziraphale.

"_That_."

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale mumbled, leading her by the crook of her elbow somewhere else, anywhere else. If there was one thing Crowley was thankful for right now, it was the angel's perceptiveness. "Dial the charm down, Crowley."

"It's not like a gas stove that I can just put on low!" She huffed, nearly stumbling over her own shoes when she tried to follow his pace. "Wait, slow down…"

"Crowley –"

"I'm hobbling, you twit, can't you see?" she growled, cursing as her kitty heel shoes wobbled dangerously in the loose gravel of the parking lot. "Will you let me lean on you and you could bloody _help_ me –"

"Well," Aziraphale huffed. "There's no need for that language, my dear –"

"Oy, is everything alright in here?"

The both of them looked up in surprise as a burly man Crowley identified as Randy approached. His face looked concerned, but then when he noticed Crowley having trouble standing upright, and the presence of Aziraphale a few paces away, his gaze hardened. "And who are you?"

"Me?" Aziraphale squeaked, surprised. "I'm –"

"Miss Ashtoreth's chauffeur, I take it?"

"Her _what_?" The angel yelped in indignation. 

"Fat load of use he would be, if he actually knew how to drive," Crowley sniggered, finally gaining enough balance to right herself. "Don't worry, he's my –"

"I am not her chauffeur!" Aziraphale scoffed. 

"No, not at all," Crowley agreed. "Because I'm the one who drives."

"Oh." Randy blinked, as though surprised, then smiled. "Miss Ashtoreth, you've been on your feet all day, let me at least…"

"Let you what?" she asked warily, watching as Randy all but wrenched her bag out of Aziraphale's hands. "Hey, now, this isn't necessary…"

"Let me drive you home, Miss Ashtoreth," he insisted. 

"Excuse me." Crowley craned her neck to see another mousey man who had a weird name – Tino or Tini, she forgot quite easily – stand behind Randy, hands curled into fists on either side of his body. "I-I insist I take Miss Ashtoreth home."

"What?" Crowley squeaked, surprised. "Boys, h-hang on –"

"Get out of here, Tiny."

"It's _Tini_, and you're not one to talk – "

"BOYS!" Crowley all but yelled, and the men suddenly stopped, chest and noses already pressed against each other, poised to fight. Crowley leaned back, resisting the urge to jump at their throats or threaten them with the appearance of her snakehead to scare them away. "_Ahem_… boys. Thank you, very much, but that won't be necessary. You see, I'm not leaving yet. And I'll be able to rest in my car, thank you very much. I'll just have a smoke and I'll be off."

"You smoke, Miss Ashtoreth?" Tini blinked owlishly at her.

The tall redhead just grinned. "Yes, I do. Why, does a woman smoking put you off?"

"Nonsense," Randy scoffed and stepped forward, lighter already in hand. "Miss Ashtoreth smoking is just class on class, if you ask me. Here, let me light your cigarette for you."

"Idiot, she doesn't even have a cigarette out, yet." A guard named Harry approached, taking out a metal tin pack from his breast pocket. "What's your poison, doll? I've got some classic Marlboros."

"Marlboros are too hard. Here, Miss Ashtoreth, I've got some Dunhills. They're Switch. Menthol. Good stuff."

"Dunhills are sexy, but they're all just fancy packaging. Let me roll you one, Miss –"

"And have your spit and your low-quality tobacco harm the Miss's lungs? Fat chance. How about a cigar?"

"No, _fuck you_ – Miss Ashtoreth, please –"

Crowley had stepped back as soon as more people approached. The problem was that the very same people roughly shoved Aziraphale aside, effectively separating them. Crowley's small yelps and cries for help were easily drowned out by testosterone-packed squabbling and petty brawling. Before she knew it, the demon found herself being backed up against the wall, almost on her toes to try and avoid physical contact.

When the tension started escalating, and a swinging fist narrowly missed her head, she decided enough was enough. There was a horrified expression plastered on Aziraphale's face, seeing it as well. 

Angered, Crowley suddenly found her voice -- and used it to scream, loudly, the very first things that went out of her mouth. In her mind, many words were queued up: expletives, mostly, but more of phrases and sentences that have been pent up since she started residence, to draw the borders between professional and personal.

None of them went through. Instead, what she shouted was something she wasn't even thinking. "I'M ENGAGED!"

The guards suddenly went still. Randy, with his sandy-blond hair being yanked by another man, flinched. "You're what?"

"I-I uh..." 

_Shit_, she cursed inwardly, looking at Aziraphale for help. The angel looked confused, but realization slowly dawned on him, and the man that remained unseen from most of the crowd's eyes softly snapped his fingers. Crowley smiled gratefully, feeling something fall into her pocket.

"I'm engaged, boys," she said flirtily, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a plain, gold band with a row of diamonds inlayed. Even Crowley herself had to take pause, marveling at the beauty of the ring she was holding. It was a good thing that all of the guards were also preoccupied with the same thing she was, otherwise her pause would've been suspicious. 

"That's... not an engagement ring," Tini grumbled, excusing it away. His lip was already bleeding. "Otherwise you'd be wearing it."

"You really think I'd be working the whole day with my gloved hands, picking the master up and doing many, many things with my hands with my ring?"Crowley scoffed, taking her gloves off. She slipped the ring on her finger, and she found herself humming pleasantly when it fit perfectly. "I keep it safe where it doesn't get lost."

"And who might the lucky man be?" Harry groveled.

"How d'you know my partner's a man?" Crowley shot back, and the guard's face colored.

"Well... I... y'see, I didn't... I'm not homophobic, but..."

"Uh-oh," Crowley teased.

"It's just -- I didn't take you for a --"

"So you're saying I should dress and act accordingly to a very boxed-in stereotype?" 

It was great, great fun watching Harry devolve into a bumbling, fumbling mess, and the guards around him started to jeer, as well. Crowley sniggered to herself, clearly enjoying it, until she caught Aziraphale's disapproving little pout. She sighed, then clapped her hands once to get their attention. "It's a man."

"Ah." Everyone straightened. "And?"

Crowley grinned cheekily, then pointed at Aziraphale, who looked shocked at the blatant misdirection of attention. "Fellas, this gentleman is Mister Azira Fell. He's three things: a business owner, a purveyor of antiques and literature and antique literature, and..." She looked up at everyone, then showed her gorgeous ring. "My darling fiancé."

\-------  
Word got around fast in the Dowling estate. If there was any doubt in the demon's mind that she was the subject of gossip in between all those under employ by the family, the spread of the news of her engagement dispelled those immediately.

Crowley, however, didn't mind one bit, mostly because her mind was preoccupied, fixated elsewhere, which was a big no-no while she was taking care of the literal Anti-Christ. 

Mainly on her supposed fake-fiance, who didn't, even for a moment, contest on her backstory. In fact, Aziraphale was quite eager on it and had fashioned a matching engagement band on his ring finger with another snap of his finger as they ironed out the creases in Ashtoreth Crowley's supposed new life event. 

As soon as the Dowlings had heard the news, they showered Crowley with gifts and congratulations and business cards for the best in the business -- wedding planners, caterers, bakeries, dressmakers, florists, entertainers, everything. Knowing that the tracker would be used to monitor her every move, she had readily taken off a few days to do some 'wedding planning', going to different stores with Aziraphale, who looked all too happy to comply. 

The angel had dived headfirst into deciding which cardstock in what color was best for the wedding invites and the save-the-dates, as well as the color scheme for the whole imaginary event. Crowley merely tagged along, smiling and nodding quite politely, still dazed at the number of flirty congratulations and light teasing from the shop managers requesting for a juicy little nugget on how Aziraphale had proposed. The whole ordeal was overwhelming to the demon, to say the very least, and she wouldn't have gone through such an elaborate scheme if she wasn't being quite literally watched.

Aziraphale, however, was having the time of his life.

"We could have our wedding in a winery," the angel had babbled, wiggling his fingers in front of him to check if the ring matched his outfit. If Crowley hadn't been willing the Bentley to actively not crash into a light post, they'd have wrapped themselves around one already, because the demon was quite distracted by the novel accessories now on both their persons, not to mention fatigued by an extra trying number of days of wedding preparations."And we could have an outdoor reception, an intimate ceremony. String lights on a canopy, perhaps we could exchange our vows on a bandstand. Your favorite flowers in a delicate little bouquet --"

"Angel, you know this is all fake, right?" she had mumbled, immediately feeling guilty for figuratively pouring a bucket of ice-cold water over Aziraphale's head.

To his credit, the angel hadn't minded, merely shrugging in the passenger seat. "What harm could imagination bring?"

And that had suck with her for quite some time. Even at that point, a week after she had clumsily hatched an engagement story to tell those who actually dared ask her, Crowley felt quite detached from reality. She even felt excitement over a fake engagement and took the congratulations sent her way with a sweet smile and the grace of a lady.

That is until Warlock had stomped to her one day after tutoring, only to quite literally shove a piece of paper to her face.

"Well, someone didn't like the day's lessons, I take it," Crowley said, taking the paper and smoothing it out. "What's all this, then?"

But she didn't need Warlock to reply, having already seen what had irked the toddler. There was a crude drawing of Crowley, tall and thin with a distinct black wardrobe and a shock of red hair, right beside a ball of tan with blond hair, the latter being crossed out rather harshly with a black crayon. And if that wasn't recognizable enough, the words "Nanny Ash" and "Doody Fell" were scrawled on top.

Crowley looked up at Warlock, who was leaning against the wall, backpack hanging from his shoulder by the strap and arms crossed on his chest. There was an exaggerated frown on his little face. "Don't wanna go to the wedding."

The demon reached out, thankful she wore gloves even inside the house. Crowley didn't know what everyone's reaction would be by the sudden appearance of a highly valuable, very beautiful ring. "Master Warlock -- "

"Don't want you marryin' Doody Fell!" Warlock cried out, stomping on the carpet. "No, Nanny! I said so!"

Crowley mentally prepared herself to placate the child. It wasn't her first time tamping down a temper tantrum, and it certainly won't be the last. "Now, young man --"

"Nooooo," he whined, and the nanny just pursed her lips.

"I'm going to count to ten," Crowley calmly replied. "And I want you to do the breathing exercise I taught you. And then we can talk about it, okay? Does that sound fair?"

Warlock frowned for a couple more seconds before nodding. 

"Good boy. One... two..."

And the toddler closed his eyes, his little chest heaving as he breathed in and out in time with Crowley counting. Crowley had taught Warlock, from a young age, to calm himself down enough to at least get his arguments, thoughts, and opinions straightened out. If she was to raise the Anti-Christ that would bring about Armageddon, then she'd damn well make sure that he'd be a level-headed leader and not an idiot that's led by the sheer force of emotions, using, instead, logic to support channel those emotions into maniacal deeds.

By the time Crowley reached 'ten', Warlock's brows had unfurled from where they knotted together, and his arms became slack from his body. When the boy opened his eyes, he ran straight for his nanny, who met him with outstretched arms. "That's better, now, isn't it, pet?"

The boy just nodded. "Sorry," he mumbled into her tweed coat, breathing in the faint floral notes of Crowley's perfume.

Crowley patted his head. "You can feel angry, Master Warlock. Your emotions are yours. Can you tell me properly why you're angry at me being wed? Or why you're angry at uh,... 'Doody Fell'?"

Warlock leaned back, pointing at the crude drawing that Crowley was holding up. "Well... you shouldn't marry him."

"Why not?"

"Because-- because --" Warlock stammered, then looked elsewhere, fidgeting with his fingers and nails. "Er..."

Crowley squinted behind her glasses. She knew him as a baby, watched him grow into the sweet little boy he was now. The demon knew exactly what he did when he lied, and fidgeting was his number one tell. "What is it, pet? You know it's not good to lie."

"But you told me I could," the toddler mumbled.

"Not to me. Not to Nanny," she clarified. "Because?"

Warlock sniffled. "Because... because someone else loves you." And before Crowley could open her mouth to ask 'who', the little boy looked up into her eyes and answered. "Brother Francis."

She felt like she was stabbed in the gut, the knife twisting into her intestines. Crowley felt winded, and gutted, her heart fluttering in her already too-tight chest."W...What?"

"He told me not to tell you," Warlock explained, jumping up and down. "Not until he gave you this... this ring! He wanted to... He really wanted to give it to you! It was gold, and really pretty, with diamonds in it! Brother Francis told me it reminded him of the stars and reminded him of you!"

Something suddenly clicked inside Crowley's head, and her cheeks suddenly felt warm. Numbly, she fished out the ring from inside her blouse, strung around her neck with a thin gold chain so she could still wear it without losing it accidentally when she took something out of her pocket. "Warlock," she croaked, voice barely a whisper. "Is it this?"

The little boy's eyes were the size of dinner plates. "Yes! Yes, that's it, that's the ring Brother Francis showed me! But..." He looked confused, tilting his head this way and that. "Did he give you that?"

Crowley cleared her throat. "No... No, it was Mister Fell who gave it to me."

Warlock snorted. "Doody Fell..."

Crowley couldn't even find it in her to correct him, her mind racing with so many thoughts, all revolving around a specific angel who was probably tending to the gardens (rather badly, to be quite honest) in a frock and a straw hat and wearing false teeth. 

The day passed by in a breeze, with her trying to distract Warlock with playtime and the quite valuable lessons that Crowley thought would make the perfect Anti-Christ. In between the many activities that revolve around knife-throwing at plush dolls and decapitation reenactments, Crowley sent a message to Brother Francis via a slip of paper passed through the hands of the employees.

It only said: "Talk, carpark, meet me w/ keys". 

* * *

When she finally walked out with her purse, Aziraphale was standing there in his usual beige suit and coat, blond hair radiant under the streetlight, making him shine even in the darkness of the night. Crowley had had the whole day to think about what she was going to say or ask, and she prepared a mental speech to go along with it, but the minute she saw the angel, all the words died in her throat and faded into static in her mind.

Aziraphale raised his hand in a wave and instinctively took her bag for her, before leading Crowley to the Bentley. Ever the gentleman, he opened the driver's door for her and sat in the passenger seat as soon as she was settled in behind the wheel.

It took a few minutes of driving before anyone of them spoke, and it was Aziraphale who broke the silence. "So... what is this talk about?"

Crowley's mouth felt acidic, and she cleared her throat twice before forming out a reply. "Well... er, Warlock just told me the most, uhm... _interesting_ story."

Aziraphale tilted his head. "Oh? Is it something we should be concerned about? Regarding his upbringing, I mean?"

"None of that sort," Crowley mumbled dismissively. The angel's curious look he sent her way wasn't lost on her, but she decided to ignore it. "I'm talking about the ring."

"Oh? Did he like it?"

"He did, but he told me that someone else showed it to him before you Miracled it onto my finger," she said, turning at a road juncture into the main highway. "A certain gardener, to be precise."

"...Oh."

There was a deafening silence from his passenger, but Crowley just waited, letting him stew for a bit in his bath of revelations as they stopped by a stoplight. She looked over the angel, who was biting his lip and fidgeting. "So? Are you going to explain this to me?"

"Does it need any explanation, Crowley?" he asked, a bit on the defensive. Aziraphale's mouth had thinned, but it wasn't out of anger. More on embarrassment, and -- and something else the demon couldn't quite place. "What do you need me to say? Hm?"

"The truth would be nice," she said mockingly. "You're an angel, aren't you?"

"If it's the truth you want, then it's the truth you'll get." Aziraphale's voice nearly boomed in the quiet interior of the Bentley. He fully faced Crowley in the driver's seat, hands balled into fists on his lap. "I love you, Crowley."

She took in a sharp intake of breath because that really wasn't what she was expecting to come out of Aziraphale's mouth. "Wait, what?"

"I love you. I want to marry you. I want to see you wear that ring, as a testament to my vows, and I shall wear my ring, in turn, as a testament of my love for you."

Each and every word that Aziraphale uttered rang loudly, like bells in a cathedral, inside Crowley's skull. It wouldn't have surprised her if she had accidentally stopped time out of sheer shock, because the demon felt like she had just been dunked in an ice bath. Crowley's mouth opened and closed without sound, trying to formulate a response, a noise, anything that would be coherent enough. 

Aziraphale reached over, clasping his hand over Crowley's on the wheel. Lit only by the lights of the vehicle in front of them and the stoplight above them, the angel's blue eyes were soft and imploring, and full of love and adoration, all of the things that Crowley never expected to be directed at her.

"Let's make this real," the angel mumbled, kissing the ring that Crowley wore on her finger. "What do you say? Will you marry me, my dear?"

And suddenly, as if the world suddenly righted itself, Crowley found the one word that rang true to her heart.

"_Yes_."

**Author's Note:**

> soft on soft on soft uvu
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> Flower language used --
> 
> Daisy: innocence; loyal love; purity  
Daffodil: new beginnings; faithfulness; endless love; respect and admiration


End file.
